The Brightness Within
by Telcontar Rulz
Summary: The Wizard of Oz was supposed to be just a story. No one could fall into another world, could they? When Sibby Stanton finds herself in a strange new world full of medieval technology, magical rings and mythical creatures that defy the laws of physics, she's convinced she's fallen through a quantum tunnel, and there's one object that maybe, just maybe, could get her home.
1. The Arrival

**A/N:** This is my experiment in trying to create a GIME with superpowers who, nevertheless, isn't annoying to read. This is going to be _extremely_ AU, as in everything will change, including how the story ends. If you're looking for something that stays true to Tolkien's philosophies, this probably isn't it. If you're into something a little bit different and examines his philosophies from an alternative point of view, this is my attempt at doing so.

Sibby's home world doesn't have _LotR,_ but it does have _Game of Thrones_.

 **Disclaimer:** I only own the Stantons and Jamie Larson. Everything else belongs to Professor Tolkien.

* * *

 **Chapter 1: The Arrival**

When William Stanton received the call at his office, he had no idea what he was in for. An hour and a half later, he was at Queens Hospital, where his wife, Marie Clyde-Stanton, was waiting for him just as he'd asked. Her eyes were red from crying and she clutched a crumpled tissue as if that would keep the force of the bad news at bay. "I'm so sorry," she whispered as she collapsed into his arms. "The doctors say she won't make it." William was a man who had grown up believing that emotions were weakness, but at those words, he almost crumpled. Nessa couldn't die. She was his baby sister. Yes, she was a mess and she lived life on the edge, but he'd always admired her fearlessness and how she defied their father at every turn, despite getting her inheritance cut off. But perhaps that was what had killed her. She'd finally encountered something she couldn't overcome with sheer force of will.

Nessa lay in a darkened room. Machines beeped in a sterile environment. She wore an oxygen mask over her face. If he hadn't already known who she was, he wouldn't have recognised her. Her face was bruised and swollen. There was a gash above her brow that went through her eyebrow and all the way into the bridge of her nose. Her head was wrapped in bandages. The rest of her lay under the crisp white hospital sheets. She was still breathing, but just. The heartrate monitor beeped slowly. "Ness?" he whispered. She didn't respond. He took her cold, lifeless hand. Her nails, he noted, were bitten and covered in flecks of old black nail polish. "Ness, it's me. It's Will. I hope – I _know_ you can hear me. You don't have to worry about your baby. Marie and me, we'll take care of her. She'll be safe with us, I promise."

He pressed a kiss to her dry papery skin. She didn't respond, but he felt that she had understood every word.

Outside, Marie was speaking with a doctor who held a file out to her. When the doctor saw him, she turned to him. "Mr Stanton, I was just speaking with Mrs Stanton about the baby. In the case of her mother's death, you are her next of kin, unless you know who her father is?"

William shook his head. "Nessa didn't mention anyone. I didn't even know she was…" He sucked in a shuddering breath.

"I understand," said the doctor.

"The baby, how is it?"

The doctor smiled. "It's a little girl. She seems perfectly normal and healthy, although we're monitoring her. She is a month early. Do you want to see her?"

It was Marie who held her first, that tiny thing with a wrinkled face wearing a pink knitted cap over her tuft of dark hair. Two months after her mother's car accident and her emergency C-section birth, and five weeks after the doctors declared Nessa Stanton to be in a permanently vegetative state and the family decided to disconnect her life support, William and Marie took Sybille home.

* * *

 **16 years later…**

Shit, shit, shit. Her dad was going to be so mad. Well, Mom was the one who was going to yell at her, but Dad would have this disappointed look on his face and that was ten times worse. Sibby jiggled her knee as she sat on the sticky linoleum seat in the principal's office. Across from her were the three boys from the football team, minus the quarterback who had to be taken to hospital. It really wasn't her fault that he had a broken wrist and a broken collarbone, and a possible concussion. Who told him that Sarah was prey and that he could do whatever he wanted with her? Sibby was only defending her little sister. Who, by the way, seemed to show absolutely _no_ appreciation for everything that she'd done.

The boys kept sneaking glances at her, and then looked away when she glanced back.

At sixteen, Sibby was in twelfth grade and was as tall as most of the boys. Her unruly dark hair had been scraped back into a tight ponytail full of tangles, and a smattering of freckles danced across the bridge of her nose. She wasn't pretty the way perfect, golden Sarah was, with her perfectly tousled voluminous blonde hair that looked like she'd just had a blow dry or gone to the beach, her sparkling blue eyes framed by eyelashes that didn't need mascara, her lithe hourglass figure and a rose petal mouth, but she wasn't absolutely hideous.

Finally, her parents stepped out of the principal's office. She felt a stab of guilt. Her dad was in the middle of election campaigning and he couldn't really pull himself away from work, but here he was, dealing with her. Again.

"Thank you for your time, Senator Stanton, Dr. Clyde-Stanton," said Principal Harriman. He shook hands with both of them. "I appreciate you coming in to speak with me. I hope that you will consider what I have said." What? What did he say? Sibby was dying to know.

"Come on, Sybille," said Marie. "Let's get you home." Sybille? Uh oh. Mom was mad. Which she'd expected. She followed her parents to the car, where Sarah was already waiting with their driver Cesar.

Cesar gave her a wink and said nothing when they got into the car for an Awkward Drive Home.

Her older brother Ben had come home for the weekend. During the week, he stayed at his dorm at NYU, where he was pursuing a degree in sports medicine. What her parents didn't know was that he spent more time partying than he did studying. Sibby wasn't going to blab on him, even if she sometimes did help him do research for his papers.

The first thing they heard was Ben rummaging in the fridge. "Hey," he said when he saw them. His dark hair curled over his ears and one tendril dropped over his brow. It was getting a little too long again but he never cut it unless their mother dragged him to the hairdressers. In fact, Sibby thought he was just about due for such an appointment. "What's for dinner? There's nothing in here."

"We can order pizza!" cried Sibby happily, everything at school forgotten. "I want spicy potato wedges!"

Ben then noticed the expressions on his parents' face, not to mention Sarah's scowl. "Uh oh," he said. "Did I do something? Because I can explain."

"Sibby broke Darren Hertz's wrist and collarbone and now he won't be able to play for the whole season!" cried Sarah.

"Hey, he was pressing himself up against you with his friends all around. What was I supposed to think?"

William's brows drew together. "Is this true, Sarah?" he asked.

"Darren's a friendly guy, that's all!" said Sarah. "Now everyone's going to think I'm a freak like her too!"

"Nice one, Sis," said Ben, giving Sibby a high five. "By the way, Sarah, lots of my friends think Sibby's cool."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Yeah, as if all your friends aren't freaks like you."

"Freaks like Jamie, you mean?"

Sarah coloured all the way from her chin to the roots of her hair. Jamie was James Larson, son of Californian senator Blake Larson. Everyone knew that Sarah had a crush on Jamie. Sibby had to admit, Jamie was pretty good looking. And he was fun. And he wasn't smarmy like Darren Hertz. As far as Sarah's crushes went, he was a pretty good choice. Sibby felt a warm feeling grow inside her. Jamie thought she was cool! She cast a smug glance in Sarah's direction.

"Yes, because James Larson's opinion is all that matters," said Marie, rolling her eyes ceiling-ward. "Look, Ben, get whatever you want for dinner. And yes, you can have a glass of that white in the wine cooler. It tastes like tap water, but I'm sure you know that. Sibby and Sarah, _we_ are going to have a little chat."

"But I'm _hungry_ , Mom," whined Sibby, the same way she did when she was six. Marie gave her a look. Damn it. If it had been just her dad, it might have worked. William looked like he was about to intervene on his daughter's behalf, but thought better of it. She sighed. "Ben, don't forget the wedges, will you?"

* * *

William splashed water onto his face. Talking with Sibby was sometimes more exasperating than debating with the opposition or responding to their accusations and completely false allegations. Sibby was bright. That much had been clear from a very young age when, for her second grade science fair project, she'd constructed a home-made time bomb without any help from anyone. The problem was that she'd brought it to school and wanted to demonstrate how it worked. Needless to say, they changed schools soon after.

"She could have killed that boy," said Marie. "I mean, I get where she's coming from, the way he was with Sarah, and I probably would have done something similar myself, but Sibby could have killed him if Coach Ruiz hadn't stopped the fight. I know it." She sat on the edge of their bed, with her hair loose and wearing an old t-shirt of his and a pair of faded shorts. William didn't know how she could look sexier than she had at college. The lines on her face gave her gravitas that youth could not bestow, and age had only made her features sharper. Behind her, the skyline of New York glowed and the Hudson almost looked pretty as darkness veiled its filth. "What did we do wrong, Will? I mean, do you think she remembers Nessa? Do you think that's why she acts out? Sometimes latent memories can cause children to behave…" Violently, she wanted to say. Dangerously, probably.

"I don't think it is that," said Will slowly. "She seems perfectly happy." He paused. "Has she said anything to you?" His heart pounded. When they had brought Sibby home, they had promised to never tell her that she was adopted, or anything about the circumstances surrounding her birth and Nessa's death. It would have been too traumatic for her, and they didn't want her to feel as if she were any different from her other siblings.

"No, nothing," said Marie. "Like you said, she seems perfectly happy, but what if she's pretending?"

"I think Ben would have noticed something if she were," said William. Ben was their eldest child and only son. Only two years old when they brought Sibby home, the two had bonded at the hip, with Sibby trailing him everywhere as a toddler. As they'd grown, they'd become best friends, even though they could not be more different. Ben was a cheerful, calm, kind boy with a B+ average and a greater interest in sports than in anything else, whereas Sibby seemed to operate under the modes of either gleeful or angry and excelled at everything she did, except English.

So it was always incredibly puzzling as to why such an intelligent girl could do such _stupid_ things such as get into fights in school over real or perceived threats and insults. Not that she ever lost.

That was his fault, he supposed. After the first couple of school fights, he'd hired a martial arts instructor for Sibby, thinking that it would give her some discipline and allow her to channel her restless energy into something a little more constructive. It just made her better at beating up people.

"Do you think she'd tell him?" asked Marie. William gave her a wry smile, and she had to laugh a little at her question. When did Sibby ever keep a secret? Or, at least, when did she ever keep one well? "You know, it's funny. If she'd lived in ancient Sparta, they'd have celebrated her. Sometimes I feel like she comes from a bygone age, you know?"

William bent down, kissed Marie on the lips, and climbed into bed. "Why don't you take her for a girl's day out tomorrow, if you're not too busy with your book? We're not going to get any more out of her today but, maybe, in a more relaxed environment, she might say more."

"Have you met our daughter? Her idea of a relaxed environment is the paintball range."

* * *

Sibby made faces to herself as she flicked through the clothes on the rack. Seriously, what was the obsession with pastel colours for girls? Nearby, Sarah squealed over a frilly blouse she'd just found and added it to the pile of clothes she wanted to try in the dressing room. "We've been at this for hours," complained Sibby. She looked at her watch. It had been forty five minutes. "I'm hungry."

"You're just this bottomless pit of hunger," scoffed Sarah.

"At least I don't write down everything I eat."

"Girls, play nice," said Marie.

"I can't be nice when I'm hangry," declared Sibby.

"Like you're _ever_ nice," said Sarah.

"Speak for yourself," said Sibby.

Marie sighed. "Sibby, why don't you go to Barnes and Noble and pick out a couple of books? Sarah and I will text you when we're done here and then we can have lunch."

Finally, she was free. She stopped by a hotdog stand to buy herself a snack, and then wandered down the street towards the bookstore. She didn't notice an old man in a woollen cap and checkered scarf following her. At times, he pretended to be reading a newspaper, or buying a pretzel. Always, she was within his sight. She stopped at a pedestrian crossing the wait for the light to turn, still munching on her hotdog with extra pickle and mustard.

The old man stumbled into her. "Oh, excuse me," he said, as he reached out to hold onto her arm to try and keep his balance. His grip was incredibly, unnaturally strong. She dropped her hotdog and caught a glimpse of his eyes; clear and blue, as if all the mysteries of the universe were hidden in them. And then she was falling, and falling, and falling…

She pushed herself up and looked around her. "Mom?" she called. "Sarah?" Where was she? There was altogether too much green. Everywhere she looked, there were bushes and trees. Not manicured bushes and trees but wild and prickly ones, growing all over. In the distance was a line of snow-capped peaks. "Mom!" She pulled out her phone. No signal. That was just bullshit. A moment ago, she'd been in downtown New York. What had happened? She remembered an old man, those eyes, and then that feeling of falling… no, it wasn't falling. Maybe it was a quantum tunnel? But right there in the middle of the city? What had caused it? She wasn't a conspiracy theorist but she had to wonder if the Pentagon was behind this and she was just an unfortunate bystander. But, then, shouldn't there be more people here with her? Unless there were branches in the quantum tunnel. And what did the old man have to do with it? Somehow, she had a feeling he was linked. This was a phenomenon that science, and thus she, was not familiar with.

"Mom! Sarah!" Her voice echoed in the vast emptiness of the wild. Only a few bird calls answered. It was drizzling. She pulled the hood of her puffer jacket over her head and picked a direction. Sooner or later, she was bound to bump into a road, right?

The trees and rocks stretched for miles. Clear little brooks converged with one another, flowing towards a river. Mud caked her boots. The rain was only growing heavier, until the mountains disappeared behind a damp veil. Water ran down her nose. She was starting to get very worried. Everywhere she looked, there seemed to be no sign of civilisation at all. No road signs, no fence posts, no telephone lines, no nothing. Also her phone was still giving her the no signal message.

She kept on walking, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and not veering from the path that she had set herself. At least she wasn't going to die of thirst. Hunger was a very different matter. Her dad had once shown her and Ben how to grope for fish, but she doubted she was good enough at it to actually catch herself a meal. Her stomach grumbled. That hotdog felt as if it belonged to another lifetime. To take her mind off the gnawing emptiness in her stomach, she tried to run through the calculations in her head, but she had no figures to base them off of. She could be anywhere in the universe. Well, not anywhere. Judging by the flora and fauna – there were fir trees and nettles, and a starling had just flown away after having pulled a worm out of the mud – she was still somewhere on Earth, and most likely in the Northern Hemisphere. Her watch said it was 12.12pm. Clearly not in this timezone, because it looked closer to 5pm right now. She tried to think of what place on earth was five hours ahead of New York. Iceland? Greenland? It didn't look cold enough to be either of those places. Unless the quantum tunnel had also pulled her through time and not just space, and instead of the couple of minutes it had felt like, it was actually…

That did not bear thinking about.

"Ho there!" What was that? A horse and rider? The man on the horse was dressed strangely. He wore what looked like a fur-lined cloak. His tack looked… old fashioned. As he drew closer, she could see the pommel of a sword peeking out from beneath his cloak. Dread settled in her stomach. Time and space.

"Are you all right, miss?" he asked. "You look lost." His face was stern but kind. That didn't mean anything, however. Charm was a serial killer's best lure.

"Can you tell me the way to the nearest town, please?" asked Sibby.

"Nearest town? There's nothing in the way of settlements until we reach the last homely house," said the man. "That's where I'm headed."

"The last homely house? What the heck is that?" asked Sibby. Was the man crazy? Now that she'd had a good look at his longsword, it looked pretty authentic to her, if new and not worn and rusted like the ones in museums. Maybe he was just a cosplayer. She hoped he was an Icelandic cosplayer. His English, however, was disturbingly good, if old fashioned, like everything else about him.

Maybe this was Scotland? What about Ireland?

"Some call it Rivendell," said the man. "The elves call it Imladris."

" _Elves_?" That was it. He was crazy (and stupid) if he thought she was going to believe her.

"Yes, indeed, the elves," said the man, who had not caught onto the reason behind her incredulity. "Look, it's getting dark, and it's dangerous for anyone to be out here alone, especially a woman. You're welcome to share my fire."

Could she trust him? The crazy man didn't look very crazy, and if he were someone trying to lure her into a false sense of security, he was doing a very poor job of it by mentioning elves. At any rate, she didn't have much choice. It was getting darker and colder. She had nothing on her except a bunch of bills, her credit card, and her cell phone, none of which seemed very useful at the moment. The man was waiting for her answer.

She looked him up and down. On a horse and cloaked as he was, it was hard to judge how tall he was, but he seemed rather tall and well-built. In a one on one fight, she wasn't sure she could get the upper hand. But if he really wanted to hunt her down, he could easily overtake her with his horse if she ran. "Lead the way, Sir Galahad," she said. "I'll follow."

He looked at her strangely. "I am not this Sergaladh you speak of. My name is Boromir. I come from Gondor, in the east. And you are...?"

"People call me Sibby," she said. "My mother calls me Sybille when I'm in trouble, which seems to be all the time." Best not to say that she was the daughter of a senator of the United States. He might get ideas about ransom in his head. "Do you have any food? I'll pay you. I've only got American dollars, though, but I'm sure you can change them."

"I would not ask for payment," said Boromir, looking insulted.

"Okay, okay, I didn't mean any offence. I just didn't want to take advantage, you know?"

Luckily she remembered how to build a fire from her girl-scout days. Unluckily, she had no idea how to do it with damp wood. Between her and Boromir, however, they managed to find enough dry kindling in the middle of bushes and beneath trees and Boromir coaxed a small fire to life in the shelter of an outcrop of rock that almost formed a cave, but didn't. For dinner, he shared his dried meat and hardtack with her. It was disgusting, but she was so hungry she didn't care. Again, she tried to convince him to let her pay. Again, he wouldn't hear of payment. "Get some rest," he said. "I'll take first watch."

"What's out here that you need to keep watch?" she asked. In the middle of her sentence, she started to yawn.

"Do you truly not know?" he asked in surprise.

"I haven't seen any sign of bears or coyotes at all," she said. Her eyes were heavy, and her body was telling her that rest was a very good idea, even though one part of her brain was telling her that maybe she shouldn't just trust a stranger like that.

"I don't know what kai-yo-tees are, but I envy you if you feel bears are the only danger one could encounter in the wild," he said.

* * *

The girl was a very strange creature. Boromir had never encountered anyone or anything like her. For one, her clothing marked her as being a stranger to these lands. Secondly, she had to be the brashest, most confident young woman he had ever encountered. She didn't know where or what Gondor was, and she certainly had no idea who he was. Even so, it was rare for a woman to look him in the eye when she spoke to him, not that they had a great deal to talk about. His thoughts dwelt often on Faramir's dream of the eastern sky growing dark and of Isildur's Bane.

By the evening of the next day, they reached the Fords of Tharbad. In the days of old, the Men of the West had settled here and built towns and the great bridge that now stood in crumbling ruins across the river. The girl's jaw dropped open. "No, it can't be," she kept whispering to herself. "What… how…"

"We'll rest here tonight and ford the river tomorrow morning," he declared.

"Is this some kind of ancient Roman ruin?" she demanded. "But the arches don't match, and it looks far older." She placed her hand on the slippery wet rocks that formed the base of the bridge, all the while muttering something about her mother and a field day. "Say, is there another crossing, because _this –_ " She spread her arms wide to indicate the river and its rushing, icy, muddy waters hurtling over submerged rocks and deep eddies "—doesn't look very safe."

"The next crossing is about one hundred miles downstream from here over treacherous terrain," he said. "And if we don't get to Rivendell before winter sets in, we could very well die out here."

"There's, like, seventy tons of water rushing through every second." The girl put her arms on her hips.

"It's the narrowest and shallowest part for miles around."

"And that's why it's so dangerous! All those vast volumes of water are being squeezed into this small space. That force would knock an elephant –" He assumed she meant Oliphaunt. "—off its feet! They built a bridge here for a reason, you know, although it's useless to us now." She scowled at the broken bridge as if it was all its fault.

"We cross here tomorrow," Boromir repeated. "You may stay behind if you wish, but know that winter is coming."

She looked at him and burst into giggles.


	2. At the end of the tunnel

**Disclaimer:** I only own Sibby and Jamie. The rest belongs to Professor Tolkien.

 **Chapter 2: At the end of the tunnel**

She didn't know why she couldn't stop laughing, but she just couldn't. It was the craziness of the past day catching up with her, perhaps, coupled with the fact it seemed so incongruous for a man such as Boromir to utter words that were so well known where she was from. Then again, perhaps it was entirely suitable for him to say "Winter is coming". Dressed as he was, he could very well pass for a Ned Stark cosplayer. Unfortunately he was extremely serious about all of it.

They made camp, using the remainder of their collected dry kindling to build a little fire. Darkness settled like a cloak. She heard wolves howling in the distance and other sounds that didn't sound so animalistic, but along the way, they had neither seen nor heard any humans. Boromir sharpened his sword by firelight, running his whetstone in long, smooth strokes down the blade. She wanted to ask if he had a spare, but thought better of it. She didn't trust him entirely and, in all likelihood, he didn't trust her either. They were strangers bound by need and suspicion.

Morning crept upon them unbidden and unseen, but a welcome intruder nonetheless. The world was shrouded in a grey fog, and even the rushing of the water sounded more distant than it was. The fire had gone out during the night. Boromir kicked dirt over the remainder of the embers, as if he was afraid someone would find them.

"What _is_ out there anyway?" Sibby asked. The bridge, the river, the fog and the sounds had unnerved her more than she wanted to admit. Going back in time was supposed to be impossible. There was the possibility that time had passed more quickly on that side of the quantum tunnel than on this one, but how did the science explain it? She hadn't studied Einstein's theory of relativity in such depth yet. There was also the alternative explanation that this was, in fact, _not_ Earth, but in that case, what sort of coincidence would cause homo sapiens to evolve in exactly the same way? She supposed it could be possible, given an infinite number of possible universes…

"I find it hard to believe you would not know," he replied. She wondered if he were on the run from something. "Surely you would have heard of orcs."

"Only in World of Warcraft," she responded, which drew a strange look from him. "And Skyrim, I suppose. Also Warhammer 40K." His strange look grew stranger.

"They're games," she elaborated. "Orcs aren't real… _are_ they?"

"I wish they weren't," said Boromir. "Come, now. We need to cross the river before it starts to rain again. I don't trust those clouds."

"Eh, they're gonna rain. Look at that cumulonimbus – the tower-shaped one. We'll be lucky if it doesn't storm."

The cold water seeped into her boots first, and then soaked her jeans and her shirt and her jacket. She shivered violently and gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering, all the while blowing air in and out through her pursed lips in an effort to warm herself up. She'd had swim meets in the middle of winter before, but always in an indoor pool and the water was always at least slightly heated. This rushing river, with its icy waters, was another matter entirely. Its foaming surface and the particles washed down from upstream made it impossible to see where they put their feet. They could only rely on the feel of their steps, testing each one of them before putting their feet down. Rounded rocks, worn smooth by the years of rushing water, made the bottom of the river treacherous. With each moment she spent in the water, she felt herself growing more numb and stiff.

"We're almost there!" Boromir called back to her in misguided optimism. They weren't even halfway! He was a very poor judge of distances.

Boromir's horse flattened his ears against his head, but allowed himself to be led through the torrents. He had a lot more patience than she did. If not for the fact she didn't really want to be alone in the wilderness when winter came, she would have turned and gone back to shore.

Suddenly the horse screamed and went under. Boromir, who had been holding onto his reins, did not let go quickly enough. In an instant, he stumbled and the force of the water swept him off his feet. His head disappeared beneath the swirling foam.

She didn't know why she did it. In hindsight, it seemed highly irrational and pointless, but she grabbed hold of Boromir's sleeve and was hauled off balance by the sheer force of the water. Boromir's head resurfaced and he gasped for breath, just one moment before a wave crested over Sibby's, causing her to accidently swallow a mouthful of the frigid, sediment-sullied river. She kicked her way to the surface. Strong arms grabbed her and pulled her up. "Hold on!" Boromir shouted. As if she was going to let go now!

The man tried to keep himself downstream of her so that he would crash into every rock in their way, if indeed they were swept into any. They kicked fatuously as they tried to steer themselves, but it was impossible. They might as well be students in Tianmen Square, standing before the tanks of the People's Liberation Army. "Just keep swimming!" she sang, or screamed. She repeated the mantra over and over inside her head. Above them, sparse, tough trees and scrubs grew on the few places on the sheer rocky banks where anything could get a foothold. Their branches dipped over the swirling water, like hands offered in aid.

Boromir reached out to grab a branch. His fingers closed around its tip, only to have it ripped from him and, along with it, his glove. Sibby kicked upwards with all her strength as they neared the next one. As her hand wrapped around it, a sudden current from beneath shoved her and tore it out of her grasp.

"F—" Her swear word was drowned out by yet another torrent of water crashing down over her head. The cold exacerbated the stinging of her palm. She wondered how bad it was. Suddenly there was a jolt, and she felt Boromir stiffen before going limp.

Shit, shit, fuck, _merde_. She shifted her grip on him so that his arm was resting over her shoulder, trying to keep his head above water. She did _not_ want to die. Many people might call her suicidal, but in all those incidences, such as that time when she went sky diving, or bungee jumping in the Grand Canyon, the possibilities for death had been greatly exaggerated and, in truth, she had almost been one-hundred per cent perfectly safe. Here, she gave herself about a twenty-five per cent chance. Maybe twenty, now, because she was the only one who was awake.

The sound of roaring water grew louder. She twisted her head around and glimpsed a sharp edge. Shit, she was _not_ Lara Croft, Tomb Raider! There wasn't going to be a plane wreck in just the right place to save her life! Just before the waterfall, there was a lonesome tree, with gnarly branches and a weathered grey trunk that was the same colour as the rocks. It, nevertheless, stretched out its branches.

She prepared herself, calmed her mind, and focused on nothing but the tree. That was their last chance. Tightening her grip on the unconscious man, she lunged up.

The branch held. Her grip held. There was, however, still the question of how to get the extremely heavy unconscious man onto the bank, and therefore herself.

 _You could always let him go._

But no! That seemed… well, very Walder Frey, and she loved to hate Frey with all her brain – hearts were unthinking lumps of muscle that went thump-thump, so she absolutely refused to use it in any phrase that had to do with thinking, no matter how popular it was. Boromir had been nice to her when he didn't have to be, and she wasn't going to stab him in the back. Also, she would be completely lost without him.

"Wake up, come on!" she shouted at him, and caught another mouthful of untreated water for her pains. Seriously, with all that cold water dashing against his face, shouldn't he already be awake? Unless he was very badly hurt, in which case she wasn't sure she could help him. "Open your damn eyes, you motherfucker!"

He jerked again, opened his eyes, and stared at her like he'd never seen her before.

"The branch! Grab the branch!" she screamed.

He tried, and bit back a groan. Okay, broken rib, guaranteed. That sucked. But not as much as it was gonna suck if they didn't get out of the river, like, _right now_. On a second go, he managed to get a hold of the tree's limb. Sibby let go of him and hauled herself out of the river, then grabbed him by the tunic and, together, they scrabbled onto the rocky shore.

She collapsed on the next flat surface. As the heat from the exertion wore off, cold bit into her bones until she could no longer ignore her shivering. Forcing herself into action, she stripped off her wet clothes until she was only in her bra and panties. Boromir stared at her in a daze, uncomprehending.

"We'll freeze to death in these wet things," she said through chattering teeth. The wind felt warmer than the clothes, although she knew if they stayed out here too long, they would all die of hypothermia. Their supplies – or, rather, Boromir's supplies – had been washed downstream with the horse. All they had now were the clothes on their backs. She scanned the horizon, surprised that she was still functional. "Come on, then, off with them."

"This isn't right," he said hoarsely.

"None of it is," she replied. "But let's just focus on staying alive so we can ask questions later, m'kay?"

When he made no move, she started for him and tugged at the brooch that held his cloak together. The wet fabric was so heavy that she wondered if he had provisions hidden in there. She was sorely disappointed as the only thing that fell out was a sodden piece of paper. Whatever had been on it was now running down it in sad drips. He was still staring at her.

"Do I have to do it all myself?" she demanded. She started for his belt. Immediately, he sprang into action, reaching for his sword and scrambling backwards.

Alarmed, Sibby leapt backwards herself and almost fell back into the river. "Fuck!" she shouted. Her voice was swallowed by the great emptiness of the wild. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Who are you?"

"I already told you, my name's _Sibby_. Jesus, overreacting much? I was only trying to help." She looked around for firewood, but aside from the tree they'd caught onto, there was no other source of kindling, and she doubted that, without a tinderbox, they could start a fire with green wood. Perhaps there would be more in the scrublands further away from the river. She began to gather up her clothes, wringing the water out of them as best as she could. Her tank top would be dry soon enough, but there was little hope for the jeans or the sweater or the puffer jacket. "Look, I'm going to find some shelter, and build a fire." She didn't have any idea how she was going to manage that successfully, given that dry kindling seemed to be a rarity and was going to become rarer still, judging by the bruised-looking storm clouds on the horizon.

"Sibby, wait," Boromir called. She stopped.

"I…" he began. "I apologise. I thought you were, perhaps…"

"What, trying to molest you?" She looked him up and down and felt the urge to giggle again. "Look, I'm strong, okay, but you're no lightweight yourself, mister, and I don't think you've realised it, but you're carrying that great big sword on your waist and you look like you know which end is the pointy one."

"Well, of course I do," he said, getting annoyed in his turn. His brow furrowed. "Why would I be carrying a sword if I didn't know how to use it?"

"You'd be surprised how many people just like having a sword because it looks cool," she said. "Personally I think they're compensating for something."

He shook his head but, she noted with some smugness, he followed her example, stripping off his surcoat, and, fucking hell, that was _real –_ honest to Newton real chainmail. Well, at least he tried to do all these things. When he attempted to lift his left arm, he groaned.

In the end, much to Boromir's embarrassment, Sibby had to help him undo the various buckles and ties. There wasn't a single Velcro strap or a zip in sight. She pushed the implication of what that meant to the back of her mind. There would be time to consider it later. Right now, not freezing to death was her highest priority.

They carefully made their way down from the embankment. She noted, at least, they were on the correct side of the river. That was a small comfort.

With shaking hands, they gathered what sticks they could and half dug a shelter out of the side of a hill. It took several attempts and by the end, Boromir had lost all his inhibitions and they were cuddling together for warmth, but they managed to get a small fire going.

"So, Rivendell," she said through chattering teeth, trying to focus on a goal rather than the predicament they now faced. "Whereabouts is it again?"

"Three hundred miles north-east of Tharbad," said Boromir, "following the river."

 _Fuck_ , that was far. And the river had carried them _south_ , adding even more distance to their already seemingly-impossible journey. She seriously hoped that this was all a terrible joke, and that, suddenly, someone would jump out from behind the bushes with a camera. But surely a film crew, even a dubious one for a reality TV show, would not let their main players almost drown in an icy river… somewhere?

No, not the right time to wonder. Now was the time to be certain. They had been in the river… well, it had felt like hours, but in truth it couldn't be more than ten minutes, right? So, ten minutes, with the river flowing at – she threw a stray leaf into the river and watched it be carried away by the foaming currents, timing it by her pulse. Her watch had been smashed against a rock and her soaked phone was useless. So much for civilians not needing military grade watches. She would ask for one for her next birthday. Again.

"I think we're about one and a half miles downstream from the crossing," she said. "Give or take."

Boromir gave a grim smile. "Then we'd better walk quickly once dawn comes," he said through gritted teeth.

* * *

It had been days since Sibby had last been seen. Senator Stanton had put out several pleas to the public. His opponent Andrew Heyell said it was a ploy for public sympathy, but not many people were buying it. Jamie had never seen Stanton look so awful. In the span of a week, he had lost ten pounds. Ben confided in him that his parents had hardly slept since Sibby had disappeared, with each of them taking turns to keep watch just in case she walked through the front door.

Jamie helped Ben hand out missing person fliers on the street. Every time he saw that angelic school photo of Sibby in her perfectly pressed uniform, he was reminded of just what sort of little monster she could be. Some part of him felt sorry for whoever had taken her. They didn't know what they were dealing with. Some other part of him wondered if she were already dead. They said the first forty eight hours were the most crucial, and they were well past that.

The only clue they had was that she'd bought a hot dog, and that was the last that anyone remembered seeing of her. They'd caught her on surveillance camera, greedily inhaling the snack. It was so quintessentially Sibby that her family had laughed. And then cried.

Jamie tucked his hands into his the pockets of his leather jacket. You couldn't go anywhere without seeing her face these days. She was on every news bulletin, plastered on every corner of every street. A pretty rich girl gone missing was media fodder. People started whispering behind the Stantons' backs that perhaps that perfect family hadn't been so perfect. Hadn't William's sister been a bit… troubled?

Hailing a cab, he went home to his apartment in Brooklyn. In the lobby, his mailbox was crammed with mail that he hadn't collected for an entire week. He pulled out the squashed letters – mostly bills, but some from the university inviting him to apply for such and such an art programme – and several takeout menus for local places. He dumped them on his Perspex dining table next to the ashtray full of colourful aluminium chips once he was upstairs and rubbed his face, feeling the scratch of stubble on his chin and cheeks. He checked his phone – three missed calls from his father. What did Blake want? He decided he didn't actually care and hopped in the shower, letting the hot water ease away the tension in his muscles, even if it could not wash away the worry. How could someone just disappear off the streets of downtown Manhattan with people and cameras everywhere?

The police had questioned him and everyone else remotely related to the family. He'd been ruled out, of course, as he'd been out of town and clearly had had nothing to do with it, but they still had a list of persons of interest a mile long and nobody was particularly standing out. It was incredibly frustrating to have so little to go on. Jamie started looking at everyone with suspicion, wondering if there was a monster hiding in their midst who could be capable of such a crime. So far, there was nothing to even indicate where Sibby might have gone. He did not believe for a second that she had run away and left her tarantula still in its terrarium. She loved that spider a lot more than the spider loved her.

He itched to do something more than wait. It was difficult, not just because his friends were suffering, but because...

It didn't matter. A girl had been snatched from her family and they needed her back. Even if it were a total stranger, that fact wouldn't have changed. What he felt – or didn't feel – about her didn't come into this equation.

He took his motorbike out to Harriman State Park the next day, taking a break from the media circus that was surrounding the Stantons and trying to clear his head with the fresh air. It was bitingly cold. The wind rushing past his face both numbed and woke him. The world he knew had turned upside down, but the world outside remained the same. How small and insignificant they all were in the vastness of the universe. What difference did one missing girl really make? The world didn't care. It just moved on.

His mind was a thousand miles away, back in Iraq. Human life had been cheap there too. Every breath could have been one's last. Men, women, children; in death, they were rendered anonymous, a statistic in the war's toll. He'd felt bad for them, but only in a detached way because he hadn't known them. But now it really hit home.

He turned down a lesser known road that became little more than a dirt track. The greenery grew thick. All he could hear was the sound of his engine and the birds that scattered in alarm at the sight of this monstrous beast of metal and oil. At last, the forest became too dense for even a bike to penetrate. He braked and cut the engine. Damp brown leaves, remainders of Fall, scattered. Then there was almost complete silence. He couldn't see much through the canopy and he'd lost all sense of direction. The sun could barely be glimpsed and it had started to drizzle. Fine powdery rain dusted his hair and chilled his face. He glanced back. The road had disappeared. Wheeling his bike around, he retraced the way he took, trying to get back to the road. It was all very well escaping for a couple of hours, but he couldn't flee forever. One, it would look entirely suspicious and two, he couldn't abandon Ben when he needed a friend the most.

Leaves brushed his face. He turned left, trying to remember all the turns he'd taken. He usually wasn't bad at navigation but either his mind was too tired or it was playing tricks on him, because nothing looked familiar. If anything, the trees and the air grew closer, as if they were animals ganging up on an intruder. A groan sounded behind him. He whipped around, his hand going straight to his holster but, of course, he wasn't wearing it. He hadn't seen the need. The groan sounded again. It wasn't quite human, or even animalistic. There was nothing. No birds, no insects – not that he expected insect life so near Christmas.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, like he was being watched. He reached into his pocket and found, to his relief, that he was at least carrying his switchblade and he wasn't completely defenseless, although he wasn't sure what he would do if he should come across a bear. It was the greatest threat he could think of in these parts, aside from exposure. He wasn't exactly prepared for a long stay.

"You're an idiot, Larson," he muttered to himself as he struggled to get his bike over a gnarly tree root hidden in a pile of leaves that seemed determined to stop him right then and there. "Did you really think coming out here was going to solve all your problems?"

Something moved in the periphery of his vision. He whipped around and saw only trees. It was bizarre, but he could have sworn that he'd seen a large slow animal, akin to an elephant in size, perhaps, but of a completely alien nature. It couldn't have simply disappeared.

He wished he had a drink with him. He could use a drink right now. He thought of the chips and how much of a struggle it had been to earn each one, and how proud he had been of each step, no matter how small. He was glad there wasn't any way he could get a drink right now. It might have calmed him but, in the long run, the demon would have taken him over once again.

He pressed on with more determination than ever. There was no point in starting the bike again. The paths were too narrow and twisted and there were too many obstacles in the way. It would just be a waste of gas. He wheeled it carefully to try and not scratch the paint. The rain grew harder. He could hear it hitting the upper canopy of the forest before collecting into big fat drips that plopped on his head in sudden and unpleasant moments. Eventually, he saw light in front of him. He quickened his pace, and then stopped.

There was no road. Before him stretched grasslands all the way leading up to steel grey mountains rising up on the horizon, dusted with snow. This wasn't upstate New York. He could see no sign of modern civilisation. Not a single power pole or building structure was in sight. Even the air smelled different. He had been so pre-occupied by his thoughts that he hadn't noticed it until now. He took out his phone. There was no signal – not even a weak one. It wasn't entirely unusual for Harriman but his GPS should work nonetheless. It wasn't working.

The bike came to life with a metallic roar. Birds rose in fright from the canopy. The groaning sounded again, closer and more agitated than before. He didn't wait to find out. He swung his leg over and revved the engine. The mountains didn't look like anything he recognised, but how could that be possible? He hadn't been walking for so long that he'd actually crossed over into Canada. Besides, he'd been to Canada before and this wasn't it. Was he drunk? He didn't remember drinking. He didn't even have alcohol in the apartment and nobody had offered him any.

His Beamer took the bumps with ease. If he weren't so confused he might have even enjoyed the ride, which was more exciting than anything he could have hoped for just an hour outside the city that never slept. He rode south, hoping against common sense that he would eventually hit the Interstate or just a paved road with cell coverage. It wasn't like him to panic. He'd seen active service, after all, and here he was just plain stupid lost.

In the distance, a river rushed at the foot of the mountains, foaming and clouded with sediment. What river could it be? It wasn't in the right direction for the Hudson, and it was altogether too clean. He drove up to the river with the intention of following it once morning came and stopped on the banks. He had no idea where he was and it was starting to get dark. He would need shelter, some way to build a fire and food, in that order. There were a couple of granola bars in his saddle bag and, with the river, at least he would have water to drink. He found an outcrop of rock that blocked the worst of the rain and wind and tucked his bike there. With the lighter he had in his pocket, he managed to get the fire to catch onto some sticks. He was just warming his hands when he heard the unmistakeable sound of horses' hooves.

He rushed out immediately and waved down the riders. There was a whole group of them, and as they drew near, he realised they were wearing old fashioned armour with horse-hair plumes streaming from their helmets.

"Ho, there, friend," called the lead rider, pulling his horse to a halt before Jamie. "You don't look like you're from these parts. Are you lost?"

Jamie eyed the rider. He was dressed oddly in what looked like very genuine plate armour, same as all his other companions. There were horse motifs on their pauldrons and vambraces, and horses on their dripping banners. Either they were very serious reenacters or there was something very wrong with this picture. However, these were questions he could reserve for later.

"I am definitely lost," he said with an embarrassed shrug. "If you could point me to the nearest town, I'd be really grateful."

One of the men laughed. "There are no towns here," said the lead rider by way of explanation. "The closest settlement is at Helm's Deep."

Helm's Deep. White Mountains. These names were utterly foreign to him. His heartrate increased, though he tried to control it. At least they spoke English. That was a good start. But why wouldn't they speak English? Most everybody did in North America.

They didn't sound American.

Seeing his confusion, the lead rider dismounted, though some of his men protested. Jamie stood his ground, neither advancing nor retreating. The riders didn't seem to be a threat but they could easily become one. They all carried long spears of steel and had swords at their hips. Real or fake, they could probably do some damage.

"This is no place for a man to spend the night," the lead rider said to Jamie, not unkindly. He was older than he had first seemed, in his late thirties or early forties. He took off his helmet, revealing greasy blond hair cut straight across the bottom at his jawline. "Helm's Deep is a day's ride away and I wouldn't feel right leaving a stranger out here to fend for himself. These are dangerous times. Our camp is not far. You are welcome to join us."

Jamie thanked him and stamped out his fire. He didn't think he should bring his bike. It was sheltered and hidden well enough under that outcrop, obscured by branches and leaves that he'd covered it with. Once he figured out where he was, he could easily come back to retrieve it. Besides, he had the key.

The lead rider introduced himself as Théodred, second marshal of the Mark. The men were part of a larger force defending the borders of a country called Rohan against invasion by the forces of Isengard, not that far north in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. He couldn't wrap his mind around these foreign names and concepts. It had been some time since any country had tried to invade another for the purpose of conquest without some prior claim. At least, it hadn't been done within his lifetime.

"How did you come to be here by yourself at the Fords of Isen?" Théodred asked.

"I... don't remember," said Jamie.

"You don't... remember?" Théodred raised both eyebrows in surprise and exchanged looks with his men.

"I..." This was never going to work. But what else could he do except feign amnesia until he realised what was going on? "There are gaps in my memory."

"Have you been injured?" The men were concerned now.

"Not that I can recall recently, and I feel fine," said Jamie.

There were whispers of 'spy' and something that sounded like 'done lending', but Théodred quietened them. "If this man is really a spy, then he has a terrible cover story," he said. "Besides, have you ever met a dunlending this well-spoken and this clean?"

"His cleanliness is reason enough to be suspicious," said one of the others with a scowl. "He could be working for the elves."

That did it. Jamie burst into uncontrollable laughter until he couldn't breathe. They waited a while for him to stop before offering him water. It tasted of leather and but it was better than what he'd had on tour. "I don't think I'm quite short enough to be an elf," he said, picturing a pixie in a red and green striped hat in the North Pole.

"I assure you, they are quite tall," said Théodred. "Though I have never met one myself. But there are tales of their magic and their beauty."

"That rules me out, then," said Jamie.

"I think he needs a drink," one of the men whispered.

"I do not drink," said Jamie quickly.

"You don't?" asked Théodred. "I am beginning to wonder if you are a spy and you need to keep your head clear?"

"Bad things happen when I drink."

"Like blabbing all your secrets?" said the suspicious one. His name was Grimbold, he later learned.

"Like not remembering how I ended up half-naked in an alleyway smelling of piss with my nose broken."

"Happened to me twice this year," said a younger man, raising his horn of ale. "Not the broken nose though. I might have broken somebody else's. I don't remember."

But at least nobody tried to force him to drink ale, even though they strongly encouraged it. After all, one hornful was not going to do any harm, was it?

He knew better.

Another grey morning dawned. Scouts reported that there was no movement yet on the enemy front. Théodred sent men to accompany Jamie to Edoras, the capital city, which was two hundred miles from the Fords of Isen, where they were camped. "Are you familiar with horses?" he asked Jamie.

"I won the steer roping contest of my age group," said Jamie, recalling happier, simpler times when one went to an American national state park and stayed in America.

"Ah, so you are a herdsman?"

"I was, for a time." It was easier to lie than to explain the whole concept of rodeos. They would just find it very strange, no doubt, and he was strange enough to them as it was.

"Given your garb, I would say you are a very rich herdsman," said the older man.

"My father did very well for himself and bred some of the finest horses." His father owned several racing thoroughbreds on his hobby ranch, where Ranger, his prize-winning quarter horse, was living out his golden years. He didn't go home to see Ranger nearly often enough and suddenly missed him a great deal.

"Where did you say you were from again?"

"California," Jamie replied.

Théodred gave him a blank look. "I've never heard of it, but that is not so surprising. Is it in Gondor, or perhaps to the north?"

"It's on the west coast," said Jamie.

"I did not know there were men living there. But I suppose I can't be surprised. There are men everywhere."

"Or he could be an elven spy," said Grimbold.

"Grimbold, I honestly do not know why the elves would care to spy on us," said Théodred. "Although, right now, I would not say no to a garrison of elven warriors clad in silver armour and bearing great bows as the legends tell. They would be of great help against Saruman's orcs."


End file.
